His Noiseless Passing By
by Good Queen Vold
Summary: He recalls only the wind fluttering the sails of the last ship, beneath that high, high star, alone in the vastness of water. Drabbles and ficlets about Celeborn in the Fourth Age. WIP.


_His Noiseless Passing By  
_By Good Queen Vold

I am none of the following: the Great God Tolkien or the heir to his estate; someone who has written about Celeborn, much less any other Elves, before; skilled with prose. I need to master brevity. Please refrain from suing me, and, if you review, I very much appreciate critical comments. However, feedback of all sorts is welcome. I'll be posting these very short ficlets in instalments of four to six per chapter; some are drabbles, some are double drabbles, some are neither. Also, knowledge of the books (including the appendices) and _The Silmarillion_ will be helpful.

_None noted aught their noiseless passing by;  
The world had quite forgotten it must die.  
_-William Morris (1834-1896)

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**T.A. 3019, April**

Dol Guldur lies in ruins atop the bald hill, the naked hill, Amon Lanc, its steel-dark walls thrown down and sprawled about the barren earth. Soon the stones shall be cleared, and trees replanted and brought to bloom, and the land, perhaps, repopulated by those who wish to remain, if only for a time.

There are yet things to be done. For a time.

* * *

**T.A. 3019, Mid-year's Day**

_The King's doom shall be other than mine._

There is no gloom on this evening of bliss, nor is there fading, not yet. Immeasurable swathes of light from the lamps of the City flame across the white stones and the seedling of the White Tree, gold now in the glow of grandeur.

"It is time," Galadriel whispers to him.

His gaze rests on Arwen and Elessar, in their mirth, for a moment, as a great void of stars advances on the twilight, as her hand seeks his, and they turn to retire for the night.

_He will be blessed._

* * *

**T.A. 3019, October**

In Lórien, leagues from the sea, the Lady dreams of gulls, though she has no need of sleep— gulls, their wings crested and white as the foam of a sea-swell; gulls, their caws as constant and echoing as the toll of bells. In half-slumber she turns, arching into a splay of moonlight, and a glint of mithril gleams on her finger.

"_Ai! Maiwí eärello,_" she says. "Do you not heed them?"

"Now? Nay, I do not." But oft in the shades of Cerin Amroth, when the wind is high and the mallorns shiver in the waning of the year, and lay down their leaves as a cloak for sallow ground, he hears the gush of waves against an unknown shore, and the squalls of birds no longer heard on Earth.

Her smile is grave. "Perhaps someday you will again. Will you then join me?"

"_Rato, meldanya, rato._"

_Soon, my love._ Soon— for the bearer of Nenya, for the last of the Noldor, for whom the Ban had been lifted, for she who had remained for him. He clenches, does not wish to think of it. He thinks only of how his Lady's eyes are soft tonight, a bit like dew; how her hair and his, golden and silver, mingle and twine, bright as Ormal and Illuin, Laurelin and Telperion— how all were lights that had to pass away.

* * *

**F.A. 1, September**

He remembers his parting from the Lady not as the songs (now of old) allege—

_The Three passed from Arda in silence  
when the dusk spread like fire o'er the sea  
and the sky blazed in glory farewell._

He recalls only the touch of her hand, a whisper upon his skin; the wind fluttering the sails of the last ship, beneath that high, high star, alone in the vastness of water; how at length it vanished in the deepening gloom, and the sea-void stilled beneath a night paunched with stars; and the faint and pulsing emptiness that she had gone.

* * *

**F.A. 5, May**

Imladris is quiet in the haze of late spring, in its pale snow of petals, as it has been season after infinite season, year after changeless year. Imladris yet keeps its beauty of stone and valley, of water and of gardens still well-tended, and of ancientry and lore. Here he and the sons of Elrond – and a few others who left Lórien and its East – wait, bide, prepare.

_For just a time we will remain,_ he thinks as a waxen petal, white as a gull, flits down from a branch and comes to rest in his hair. _For a time._

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Part II coming soon. Your thoughts/reviews are welcome. Oh, and feel free to correct my Quenya if it's incorrect, which it probably is.


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